


Melody

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: DAMN YOU FLUFF, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: A piano, a demon, an angel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	Melody

Quite how he’d found this place, in central London, still looking like it hadn’t changed in decades, was some minor miracle. There was a phone - ‘land-line’ didn’t he call it, these days? Even though to Aziraphale it was just ‘a telephone’ - on the wall, with dog-eared business cards for taxi services taped around it. The most up to date element was one fruit machine in the corner, continually blinking through a series of unintelligible symbols in paths over the glass surface. A pool table with more than a few welts in the nearly-bald felt, ash trays that may or may not be used (smoking ban be damned, apparently). The pictures on the wall were all art of an indistinguishable origin, with bits of brass horse-tack that no one but them would know how to use. Old books (which the angel had to refrain from slipping down to read) lining shelves, and a carpet that had just as much beer in as the kegs down below. 

The best part was, it was all original. You could just feel it, walking in. It wasn’t ‘retro’, or ‘kitsch’, it had been this way and would remain this way. A slice of not-so-distant history, kept pristine and there for enjoyment.

Aziraphale’s main concern was that this pub had been kept this way by Crowley, who had then never shared it. They’d gone to all sorts of places - cafes, restaurants, bistros, parks… but this was the first time he’d been invited here. 

He tried not to be jealous. 

The pub was quiet, a few locals (one with a very shaggy dog) sipping at pints, and no gimmicky flavours of syrups or extensive food menu. It seemed to sell bags of crisps, pork scratchings, and then alcohol. Shame there were no cheesy chips, but the rest definitely made up for it. 

Crowley lounged on the small, upright piano. Watermarks in circles from previous people dotted the top. It wouldn’t have looked too out of place in any small church, and the angel smiled, remembering that music was a constant. The tastes might change, but the underlying truth didn’t. 

“Wotcher looking at?” 

Crowley’s accent usually broadened after a few drinks, gravelling and sliding over consonants in search of vowels to drawl. 

“Oh, just the piano. Reminded me of another one.”

The keys were uncovered, and Crowley reached around to tinkle a few notes in order. “S’a’bit out of tune, but decent.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you played?”

“Why not?”

The demon was prickled a bit by the statement, his eyes sharp over the tops of his sunglass lenses. 

“Just, you had never played for me, so I didn’t think you could.”

“Hold my beer.”

Crowley did something with his hips that was ungodly, moving the stool aside, but not sitting on it. His tendrilesque fingers cracked, and he put his hands onto the keys. 

What came out of the small instrument was something so obscenely out of place, over the low moans from the stereo of music which was probably old enough to drink itself. He played pieces Aziraphale knew by heart, but he knew he’d never heard those accents, those flourishes and embellishments before. Crowley clearly knew them, and knew them enough to phrase them in his own, slightly-staccato and almost sardonic style. 

He was enchanted, like the snake-charmer had become the charmed. 

When Crowley finished, Aziraphale was dreamy-eyed and slightly buzzed. Not from the alcohol, but from the playing. 

Hand out for his glass. “Give us that back.”

“But I want more!” he pleaded.

“I’m boring everyone,” Crowley argued. 

“But not me!”

“Some other time…”

Aziraphale pouted, and dipped his head mournfully. He was not above emotional manipulation. Indeed, he had all but invented it. “If you insist… but you must teach me, too.”

“You mean you don’t know how to play?”

“Always meant to get around to it, but it seemed so terribly complicated with a lot of effort, and I rather prefered to enjoy the outcome.”

“So why you want to learn now?”

Visions of knees touching, below the keys. Hands ghosting over his. Playing some complicated duet, dancing fingers together and moving as one, complex, inter-woven creature, making nothing but beautiful art?

“I think you’d be the perfect teacher.”

“R-riiight. But not here. Don’t want everyone listening when you decide it’s like learning to drive, again.”

That was different. He didn’t need to drive, but suddenly… he needed this. 

“One more tune for the road?”

Crowley indulged him, of course. He always did.


End file.
